


The Final Prom

by DarthKawaii42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, And second kiss and third kiss actually, Ballroom Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prom, Teenagers, Teenlock, everyone ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:03:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8177756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKawaii42/pseuds/DarthKawaii42
Summary: " 'Sherlock Holmes could pick any girl in the year to go with him to prom. You really think he'd go with me? No chance,' said John, miserably.Greg shrugged. 'I think you'd be surprised.' "Prom is fast approaching, and John is dateless. There is only one person in school he wants to go with, but that someone is the ethereally beautiful, devastatingly intelligent, charmingly unique and utterly unreachable Sherlock Holmes. Who also happens to be John's best friend. Impossible, right? Maybe not...Title is a poor attempt at a pun on 'The Final Problem'. I tried, okay? Use your imagination a little.For Tumblr's @culverton. Thank you for an adorable prompt!





	

"So, prom's coming up."

Expressionless, John Watson turned his attention to the speaker sitting next to him. "Yes, it is."

"You got a date?" grinned Greg Lestrade, teasingly nudging him with his elbow. "Let me guess…" he drummed his fingertips on the desk thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. "Sarah Sawyer."

John shook his head. "We've… not been on great terms since the circus, if you remember, and I’m sure you do."

Greg frowned, nodded. He did indeed remember.  Sherlock had interrupted John and Sarah’s date and she’d barely spoken to him since. "Alright, then… Sally Donovan?"

"Sally Donovan?!" he exclaimed, incredulous. "You _are_ taking the Mickey, aren't you?”

"Right, she's horrible to Sherlock." Greg laughed, but then his grin slowly morphed into a serious expression of realisation. He raised his head, his features a picture of clarity. "God, you'll be going with him, won't you? Surely you're going with Sherlock?"

John's innards seemed to turn to cement, and then to solidify. He swallowed, and licked his lips. "C'mon, that's even more ridiculous.”  There was a moment’s silence. Sensing Greg was unconvinced, he went on, his voice taking on a despondent tone. “As if he'd go to prom with me.”

Greg’s eyes lit up. "So you're not denying it?! You want to go with Sherlock?!"

"I didn't say that." John rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop the blush that spread across his features and threatened to burn the tips of his ears.

The truth was, John would like nothing more in the world than for Sherlock to be interested in him. He had been in love with his best friend for years now. His various girlfriends during that time had been either outlets for his romantic frustration, attempts at getting over him, or both, but none had been even remotely successful. How was he supposed to get over Sherlock Holmes? He was ethereally beautiful, devastatingly intelligent, and charmingly unique. No one else was a patch on him.  But he was utterly unreachable in every respect. He was totally detached from romantic feelings, and even if he wasn't, how was John to know if he was even… _not straight_?

It was hopeless, and heart-breaking, and there was absolutely nothing John could do about it. He had resigned himself, now, to staying as nothing more than best friends, because he did not, could not, dare to risk that friendship. Melodramatic though it sounded, he wasn't sure if he could cope without Sherlock by his side, even if he would never know the way John truly felt about him.

A knowing smile played across Greg's face. "There’s no use trying to hide it. You've been head-over-heels for him since the day you met him! In fact,” he lowered his voice, “I think the only one who's oblivious to it is him."

This was the last thing John wanted to hear. He groaned and sat back in his chair, giving in. There was no disguising it from most – that much he had come to terms with after several years of being addressed as Sherlock’s boyfriend by everyone and their mother, a happening which _usually_ resulted in John having to politely inform them otherwise, and _always_ resulted in a horrible sinking feeling in John’s insides.

"Sherlock Holmes could pick any girl in the year to go with him to prom. You really think he'd go with me? No chance."

Greg shrugged. "I think you'd be surprised."

"I would be bloody surprised, you're right," he replied, no longer bothering to keep the disappointment from his voice. "It's not worth it, Greg. If I said anything and he didn't…" he trailed off.

Greg opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the teacher snapping at them both to stop talking and get on with their work. It was with reluctance that Greg did so, but John was grateful for the interruption.

***

The rest of the day dragged by for John, who spent it in a glum, reticent state, unable to shake the matter from his mind. The end-of-school bell had rung and he was climbing the staircase to the lockers, PE kit in hand, minding his own business, when he saw it:  
Sherlock Holmes standing next to the all-too-pretty Irene Adler.

John felt his heart break.

He was vaguely aware of a thump of something heavy and made of fabric hitting the floor. In unison, Irene and Sherlock looked around in surprise.

John could feel the prickle of tears behind his eyes. A terrible wave of devastation and more than a little jealousy cascaded over him. He had no right to be jealous, he scolded himself; he had no more right to Sherlock and his affections than anyone else. If Sherlock was happy, and that happiness was caused by someone other than him, then yes, that hurt, that was agonising, but John loved him, and he valued his happiness over his own. If Sherlock was happy, then John should be, too.

“Sorry.” Though he was fighting back tears, John forced a smile. Then, he swept up his PE kit and hastened back down the stairs, two at a time.

"John–" came Sherlock's voice from above, but John had already turned the corner, out of earshot.

Back against the wall in a little alcove between a cupboard and a locker tower, John wiped his eyes and took a few deep, shuddering breaths, until, to all appearances, he was utterly calm, unfazed. He held up his hand: absolutely still. Good. But even with this near-perfect façade, could he really hope to fool Sherlock Holmes into believing that nothing was up?

He stepped out of the alcove and turned to see Sherlock standing at the foot of the stairs, his beautiful alabaster face lined in consternation. John avoided his eyes.

“Sorry,” said John, as carefree as he could manage. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just, er, was surprised, that’s all. Erm.” John prayed he wasn’t blushing, but even if he wasn’t, his rapidly beating heart was threatening to make a break for it from his ribcage at any moment, and that, he thought, would probably give the game away equally effectively.

“John,” said Sherlock in a low voice, approaching him, “are you alright?”

John made an effort to smile. “’Course. I’m fine.”

Sherlock gestured at John’s face. “So your eyes are red because you have a cold, I presume?”

“Ahem, right,” he coughed as convincingly as he could, but only really succeeded in making his throat sting. “Must be coming down with one.”

Sherlock was far from convinced, but he refrained from commenting. This led to an awkward silence. A deafening silence. A silence so tense, the air pressure probably increased because of it. It was a wonder their ears didn’t pop.

There came a point when John could stand the crushing weight of it no longer -- there was an elephant in the room, and he now realised he was going to have to be the one to point it out. He steeled himself. And then he did what he had vowed never to do. With a few words, he put everything on the line.

“You’re going to prom with her, then.”

Emphasis on _her_. Not him. Not John. _Her_.

“What?”

 _Please don’t make me repeat myself._ He didn’t know if he could.

“Her,” John got out. “Irene Adler. To prom. You… with her.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “No,” he said, a look on his face which could almost be called quizzical if not for the concern he also showed.

“Sorry?”

“I’m not going to prom with her, John.”

John looked up in shock. Their gazes locked and now he knew that Sherlock would definitely notice the puffy pink that must have been framing his eyes. “What – then, what were –” he stammered.

“John…” seemingly on impulse, Sherlock reached a hand out to John’s face and cupped his cheek. John inhaled sharply and froze. Sherlock looked worried that he might have overstepped the line and began to withdraw his arm when, in a sudden bold, equally impulsive move, John grabbed it, leant in, and kissed him.

With a soft gasp, Sherlock stilled. For a half-second John panicked but then he felt Sherlock’s hands on his back and he relaxed into it.

He wasn’t sure how long it lasted. It felt like forever, yet was over too quickly.

Breathing heavily, they parted, remaining close enough that John could see all the flecks of colour in those stunning eyes of the one who had dominated his thoughts, and his desires, for years.

For how long had he wanted this? How many times had he dreamt of Sherlock's warmth on his lips, of Sherlock's body in his arms, only to wake up and realise, with an awful ache of emptiness, that it was all just another fantasy?

"Sherlock…" murmured John, still clinging to the lapel of the other boy's blazer with one hand, and his wrist with the other. "Sherlock," he said again, so overcome with joy and disbelief that no other words seemed to present themselves, so that his vocabulary was momentarily limited to just one name. He kissed him again, because he was there and he could, and he thought that maybe if he did it enough times he would realise that he actually _wasn't_ dreaming and that he actually _was_ here, _kissing Sherlock Holmes_.

Eventually they parted again, and this time John made a commendable effort to restrain himself from diving in for a third time.

Sherlock stood there, staring awestruck at John, his face dusted pink. He made an attempt at speaking, failed, cleared his throat, and tried again. "May I ask you a question?" he managed.

Bewildered, John nodded. "Wha– yeah, yes, of course, yeah. Anything. Ask."

Sherlock looked down at his feet for a moment, seeming to steel himself before looking up again and catching both of John's hands in his own. "John… will you do me the honour of accompanying me to prom?"

"Oh, God, yes," John flung his arms around Sherlock, pressing them together so close he could feel Sherlock's thunderous heartbeat vibrating through his own chest.

***

"Sherlock…" John stared in awe at the boy before him, dressed to the nines in an elegant navy tuxedo and felt his face burn. "You look…stunning."

Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered as he looked down to the floor bashfully. "I was about to say the same about you. You ought to wear blue suits more often… brings out your eyes."

John licked his lips. "I'll, er, bear that in mind."

They stared adoringly at one another. This was hardly a new thing for them, but now they did so knowing that it was with adoration that the other was staring at them. They had been woefully slow on the uptake.

“You two are looking very dapper, gentlemen,” drawled Greg Lestrade, amiably smacking them both on their backs.

“Thank you, Graham,” replied Sherlock, soliciting a mild elbow in the ribs from John.

“It’s _Greg_ ,” he whispered to an oblivious Sherlock.

Fortunately, Greg didn’t seem to have noticed. “Took you long enough, both of you,” he grinned.

They both blushed again as John put his arm around Sherlock. “Better late than never, eh?”

The background music started to fade, and the room turned expectantly to the DJ, who announced that it was now time for the slow dance, and will people please make their way to the dancefloor with their partners. Sherlock looked back at John, his face a picture of joy and surprise. “You didn’t tell me there was going to be a proper slow dance. I love dancing. Always loved it.”

“Go on, then!” Greg gave them both a gentle push in the general direction of the dancefloor. “We’ve all been waiting for this for years! Go and make us all proud, you daft lovebirds.” He laughed, and returned to his table.

A little tentatively, Sherlock took John’s hand, and they began to head over to the floor. “Who’s going to lead?” he whispered, happily, in John’s ear.

John grinned; this was one of the few times he’d seen Sherlock act excitedly over anything other than gruesome homicides. “We could take turns. I’ll start, you can finish.”

“Don’t be alarmed if I try to dip you at the end,” said Sherlock.

“Why do you think I let you go last?” John winked, and Sherlock just _melted_. All of a sudden, he pulled him into a hug.

“I love you, John,” he blurted, “I love you so much. No one – no one has ever known me, let alone cared for me, the way you do; the way you’ve always done. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you so much.”

A lump appeared in John’s throat. He stared at him. “Sherlock… I love you too. I… I always have.”

The music struck up. They danced in a daze -- an elated, loving, dreamlike daze – waltzing around the floor effortlessly thanks to Sherlock’s expert prowess, until the final crescendo of song. As Sherlock lowered their heads towards the floor, their lips met in a gentle kiss, and at that moment, the pair of them had never felt happier.

It had been inevitable, really. It was, it always had been, and it always would be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Inseparable. Inevitable. In love.

Nothing had changed, though everything had changed.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
